


innocence lost

by blazeofglory



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Endgame Pimms, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Getting Back Together, M/M, inspired by What We Do in the Shadows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory
Summary: As of today, Jack and Kent have been dead for exactly 400 years.





	innocence lost

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Gods & Monsters by Lana Del Rey! 
> 
> This one goes out to Sina, because it would not have happened without her endless patience and cheerleading! <3 
> 
> See the footnote for some spoiler-y trigger warnings.

After a while, Jack stopped keeping track of the date. Time passed so quickly, there was really no point in trying to keep up—it seemed like every time he bought a calendar, it ran out of pages in the blink of an eye. Eventually, he just stopped, and with the rare exception of having to sign a check, he never thought about the date at all.

Really, Jack only left the house at night and he didn’t feel the cold, so it never even mattered whether he kept track of the seasons—no one ever looked too hard at his clothes to criticize them for not being seasonally appropriate. Ransom made comments, sometimes, but mostly just to mock Jack for daring to go out in basketball shorts, and he was easy enough to ignore.

Kent, however, kept a careful count of the passing years. A few decades ago, Jack had spotted a pocket calendar peeking out of Kent’s jacket one day, but now he suspected that Kent mostly just used the calendar app on his phone. Jack still didn’t deem the date important enough to ever even think about, but Kent sometimes informed Jack of what he deemed to be important holidays, milestones, and anniversaries.

On the 100th anniversary of their death, Kent had presented Jack with a veritable _feast_ of humans to gorge himself—Kent had really gone all out, packing a church full to the brim with loyal parishioners who had no idea that the nice young priest who only held sermons after dark had every intention of sucking their blood. _Honestly_ , corralling dinner had been so much easier in the eighteenth century.

But on that first anniversary, Jack had still been too angry at Kent to see the offer of a feast as the apology that it was. In his anger that Kent would dare to _celebrate_ the date of their damnation, Jack had turned into a bat and flown off in a huff. That night, he and Kent had both dined alone—Jack didn’t speak to Kent for a few months after that, and he never did ask Kent whether he ended up eating all of those people or not.

The wound had still been too fresh, Jack supposed. He had still missed the life he once had, the people he had once loved, and though it wasn’t Kent’s fault that Jack didn’t have those things anymore, Jack had _never_ intended to live through that grief. At the age of 18, Jack had died with a letter to Kent clenched in one fist and a bottle of poison in the other. He had not been able to bear another day on Earth, and then—Kent cursed him to an eternity that he wanted no part of.

Sometime before the 200th anniversary, Jack forgave Kent. It took much longer than it should have, but Jack finally asked Kent for the full story of that day—Jack remembered so little of what it was like to be human, yet he still remembered everything that happened that day, more vivid than any other memory in his mind; he remembered how it felt to die. Jack finally asked Kent and Kent finally told him everything—starting with how Kent had been turned earlier the same day he turned Jack.

Kent had come to the woods to their secret spot, to see Jack again after two long years spent apart. Even though he was terrified and woozy and hungry for blood, Kent had made sure he was not late to meet Jack. When he did reach the spot, finding Jack half-dead by his own hand, he’d only followed his instincts when he set his teeth to Jack’s neck and prayed that he would wake again.

Jack had wanted to die, he’d been _committed_ to it, but it had been a long time now since he was angry about it. Some days, when Jack turned on the heat in their house and watched Netflix and ordered delivery, he was downright _grateful_ that he was still around to enjoy all of this. Though Jack would never admit it to Kent, having a laptop almost made up for all of the lonely years that he spent loathing the monster he had become. Jack was over it; his life back in their village all that time ago paled in comparison to the life he had now, and he couldn’t even remember his parents’ faces well enough to miss them anymore.

Well after their 300th anniversary, Jack was still by Kent’s side.

Over time, they had collected a few other vampires, enough to have a _proper_ coven by this point. Some people came and went, like the two boisterous girls that had stayed with them for a bit in the late twentieth century, but no matter what, Kent stayed. Somewhere around the 300 year mark, Shitty joined their coven. It hadn’t taken him long before he asked Jack, “Why do you two even live under the same roof if you hate each other so much?”

Jack had said something along the lines of, “Safety in numbers.” It was bullshit and Shitty knew it. Kent, eavesdropping from the other room like he was wont to do, _definitely_ knew it. In truth, Jack just couldn’t imagine being apart from Kent—and sure, Shitty had witnessed their huge fight a few days prior, but Jack hadn’t thought much of that fight at all. He and Kent just—they were both hard-headed, and sometimes the only way to let out all their frustrations was to turn into bats and fight. It happened every few decades, it wasn’t a big deal.

Though Jack was not afraid of the idea of being alone, he just… never found himself _wanting_ to be.

Once, in the mid-nineteenth century, while Jack was out alone one night, he met a coven of powerful older vampires. They could tell that Jack was strong, and they offered him a place with them, promising riches and feasts and power, and _yet_. Jack had gone home that night, back to the small house he shared with his coven, and he’d kissed Kent for the first time since they died.

Jack had considered telling Shitty that he stayed because the sex was just too good, but he hadn’t known Shitty for long enough to trust that he would be alright with that happening in the same house he lived in. _Really_ , though, Jack’s coffin wasn’t all that thick and Kent was a screamer, so Shitty would probably notice _that_ soon enough.

The sex didn’t mean anything, despite how often Jack heard Lardo teasing Kent about it. It was just that, after so long, Jack and Kent knew each other better than anyone ever could, and fucking anyone else had left Jack disappointed in the rare few times he’d tried it. They’d both tried to fuck humans, but Kent had complained that they were too warm and it killed his boner, and Jack always ended up giving in to temptation and sucking their blood before either of them could even come. It was just _easier_ and _better_ to have sex with a fellow vampire, and though they met a number of vampires over time, Jack never met anyone as hot as Kent. Kent was attractive and convenient and _really_ good in bed; it was certainly a lot more pleasurable than fighting him, and that was all that it meant.

 

 

Since Shitty joined the coven, he took it upon himself to wake the others every night, since he was the earliest riser. This night, though, it was Kent who cracked open Jack’s coffin, and as he woke, he could already tell that it was hours later than his usual 6:30pm.

“I slept in?” Jack questioned unnecessarily as he sat up, stretching and yawning. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and focused on Kent’s smiling face.

Though Kent typically dressed no better than Jack on a day-to-day basis, he was unusually dressed up and put together. His hair was coiffed and he was wearing his finest vest, the one from the tailor in Venice who Kent had admired too much to eat, and the deep emerald of Kent’s cravat brought out the green of his eyes. Kent hadn’t dressed up so much in decades and the decadence suited him well—it was a lot for Jack to deal with upon just waking up.

“It’s our anniversary, I wanted you to be well-rested for the festivities,” Kent said, giving Jack an unnecessary hand to pull him up, using his full strength. Jack stumbled a little, surprised by the force, which brought him quite close to Kent, and he caught the scent of fresh blood—Kent had been preparing a special meal, just as had for the last three anniversaries.

“Four hundred already?” Jack asked, grinning easily as he took a step back, unable to drag his eyes away from Kent in such tight pants.

“I’m going to lie and tell Tater that you remembered, because he told me you wouldn’t,” Kent said, giving Jack a playful shove as he started making his way out of the room. “Now get dressed nice, I’ve got a wonderful night planned to celebrate.”

Jack wasn’t sure how he got around to celebrating the anniversary of their death rather than cursing it, but now was not the time to question it. Kent left the room, and when Jack focused, he could hear every member of the coven moving around. Kent and Tater were talking in the kitchen, Kent’s voice loud and Tater’s laugh even louder. Down in the basement, Shitty was fiddling with the washer and dryer, attempting to get them both to stay on at the same time, though they all knew it would never work. In the attic, Holster was playing a video game, cursing at the TV screen, and Ransom was in their bed, typing away at his laptop. It took Jack a second to hear Lardo, but he located her quickly enough—she was in the backyard, painting by moonlight. After a moment, she began to hum a quiet song, and another moment later, Jack heard Kent echoing the same tune in the kitchen.

With a smile, Jack began to search through his wardrobe for his own Venetian vest. This was going to be a good night.

 

 

Ransom and Holster were still young vampires, and combined, they knew enough people in the city to have a connection at every major club and bar, so they never had much trouble getting welcomed inside most establishments. That night, though, Kent and Jack went out on their own, and to Jack’s surprise, Kent brought them to a movie theater.

After a few hilarious minutes of watching Kent attempt to convince the woman taking tickets to welcome them inside, Jack stepped forward with intent, smiling at her with the ease of hundreds of years of practice.

“Hello,” he said, and for a split second, she looked annoyed at the pair of them, but then she began to _feel_ it. His voice dripped with persuasion as he spoke, “You will welcome us inside now.”

“Welcome inside,” she immediately echoed, blinking dazedly, and in they went. When Jack peered behind them, she was frowning and rubbing her forehead, trying in vain to fight off the headache that Jack’s hypnosis always caused. A long time ago, he would have felt bad, but he had killed so many people at this point, he felt no guilt in hurting them at all anymore.

Kent grinned at Jack, predatory and _pleased_. He looked hungry, though Jack wasn’t sure if Kent was more eager to get their dinner or to get his mouth on Jack. Jack didn’t really get why using his powers was such a turn-on for Kent, but—gift horses.

“What’s the point of being able to read their minds?” Kent whined for what must be the millionth time; Jack rolled his eyes. “Hypnosis is _so_ much more useful.”

“Mind reading has its uses,” Jack argued as they chose seats in the back row and he began to survey the other patrons in the theater—not _too_ many people, but enough that this would be fun. He elbowed Kent, vying for the armrest, and continued in a low voice, “You always say that hearing how scared they are of you is kind of a turn on.”

Kent looked at Jack with sharp eyes, expression unreadable.

“I wish I could read _your_ mind.”

“How about I just tell you what I’m thinking?”

Jack moved his arm so he could shove the armrest up—making it easier to reach over and put a hand on Kent’s thigh, feeling the coldness of his skin even through his pants. Kent looked down at Jack’s hand, then back up at his face, a smile spreading across his face. When he tilted his head in closer, Jack could see Kent’s fangs, dangerous and beautiful.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Kent said, in the same easily commanding tone that Jack used for his persuasion, and Jack leaned in, ‘til his lips met the shell of Kent’s ear. Powerless to resist, he left a kiss there.

“I’m thinking about how delicious those humans you brought me for breakfast were,” Jack whispered into Kent’s ear, and he felt Kent give an involuntary _shiver_. “But I’m still hungry... and I’m thinking about killing everyone in this room.”

Kent, smirking and cocky as ever, asked, “Is that _all_ you’re thinking about?”

Jack moved his hand up to Kent’s crotch, cupping his half-hard cock through his pants and squeezing for a second, as he whispered, “I’m also thinking about getting this inside me.”

Kent moaned quietly, eyes slipping shut. It was growing dark in the theater, the lights dimming for the starting movie, and Kent looked right at home in the darkness. It clung to his shadows, exaggerated his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his jaw, and—Jack _meant_ to control himself, he really did—Jack cupped Kent’s face and kissed him hard. He was too beautiful to resist.

When they parted, Kent was fully hard under Jack’s hand, and he made a whiny sound when Jack moved his hand away.

“You’re a tease,” Kent whined, though the glint in his eye told Jack that he didn’t really mind. “If this wasn’t our anniversary dinner, I’d just skip it and drag you home.”

“You make our anniversary sound so romantic,” Jack replied dryly.

Kent smirked again and said, “Romantic with a capital R.”

When Kent stood, Jack did too—they kissed once more, then parted. Jack moved to the left exit and Kent went to the right; with their vampire strength, it was easy to twist the doorknobs around each other to keep the humans from being able to escape. A few people gave Jack odds look, probably half because he was messing with the door and the other half because of his clothes, although no one said a thing.

Once the doors were secure, Jack and Kent made their way to the front of the theater, where they stood together, overlooking the roughly two dozen humans who were currently glaring right at them, loudly complaining that they were blocking the view.

Jack, too hungry to wait any longer, began to move toward the closest human, but Kent’s hand on his wrist stopped him.

“Let’s do the first one together,” Kent suggested, and— _yes_ , it had been a while since they killed together and Jack missed the rush of it.

Without hesitation, Jack strode over to the large man in the second row, and though Jack had not said a word, the man was frozen in fear. He _reeked_ of it. Jack yanked him up with ease, offering him to Kent first.

“To 400 years together,” Jack said, and Kent laughed, light-hearted and beautiful.

“To 400 more,” Kent replied, and together, they bit into each side of the man’s neck. The blood was hot and _fresh_ , with just the hint of vampire venom that came from Kent and Jack’s combined bites, and it was intoxicatingly sweet.

When they finished, the body fell to the floor between them, and Jack watched as Kent delicately licked the blood off his lower lip, chasing every last drop. Without thinking much about it, Jack kissed Kent again, tasting the blood in his mouth and licking over the sharp point of Kent’s fangs, delighting in the smell of fear coming from the humans and the _lust_ coming from Kent.  

Between the blanket hypnosis that Jack put over the entire building to keep everyone calm and the noise coming from the horror movie playing, not a soul noticed the piercing screams coming from theater four.

 

 

“We made a mess,” Jack pointed out, making Kent chuckle.

They had taken some leftovers home from their dinner, and in the privacy of their own home, they had stripped the humans naked and bitten them each in half a dozen places. At one point, Kent had hit an artery, and the carnage now covered most of Jack’s room. Belatedly, Jack was glad that Kent had insisted that they take their clothes off too, so that their Venetian vests remained untouched by the blood that coated their skin.

Idly, Jack trailed his fingers down Kent’s chest, circling his blood-wet fingertips over Kent’s nipples. After a moment, he lifted his hand to his mouth, licking each finger clean as Kent watched with hooded eyes. When Jack’s hands were blood free, he lowered his head to Kent’s chest, making quiet, pleased noises as he licked the blood off Kent’s pecs.

“We can clean tomorrow,” Kent suggested, moaning quietly. They were both much too full and much too comfortable to move, Jack draped over Kent on the chaise lounge, and they didn’t care enough about cleaning up to end this moment. The blood would stain, surely, leaving its mark on Jack’s walls and furniture and even his _ceiling_ , and though just last week, Jack had lectured Shitty about not dripping blood on the carpet, Jack was too content in Kent’s embrace to give a shit.

“This was the best anniversary yet,” Jack said a few minutes later, and with his ear pressed to Kent’s chest, he heard Kent take a deep breath—a silly human habit that he still exhibited when nervous.

“I honestly can’t believe it’s been 400 years,” Kent replied as he carded his fingers through Jack’s hair gently. He breathed out, all evidence of nerves escaping. “It feels like just yesterday that we were children, doesn’t it?”

Jack wondered, in that moment, if Kent still thought that Jack was angry about being turned.

“We were stupid children,” Jack responded, and Kent gave a surprised chuckle. “We were such stupid _human_ children, it’s a wonder we never got caught.”

“Maybe we did,” Kent murmured, sounding uncharacteristically contemplative all of a sudden. He snorted quietly, though it sounded more derisive than the amused sound he’d probably been aiming for. “Sometimes I think that whoever bit me might’ve known and targeted me on purpose.”

“Why would they make you immortal if it was some sort of punishment?” Jack asked, and felt Kent shrug, though Kent’s arms remained wrapped around him.

“You thought it was a punishment for a long time,” Kent reminded Jack, which—okay, yeah, that was true.

Looking back with 400 years of wisdom and hindsight, it was definitely possible that they’d been caught—perhaps Jack’s family found out, perhaps that’s why they made him leave town, or perhaps those angry men at the local tavern that always hated Kent saw them together one day. He and Kent had been so _stupid_ , blinded by their love, reckless when they shouldn’t have been, too caught up in their affair to notice the eyes that had surely been on them. It had been so long, Jack hardly remembered how it felt to be in love at all, let alone loving someone so much that it could possibly make him that reckless.

Jack felt fondness, sure—for Kent, for every member of their coven, for the stray cats that lived in their neighborhood, for the guy that opened his bookstore at night once a month so Jack could shop there, for cooking shows on TV—there was no shortage of things that Jack enjoyed. But _love_ … Jack could not fathom how it felt any longer.

Perhaps he lost the ability when his heart stopped beating.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, right?” Kent said eventually, snapping Jack out of his melancholic reverie. The cheer in Kent’s voice was false, but Jack was not going to call him out on it—not tonight, on the night they were supposed to be _celebrating_.

Jack sat up, straddling Kent and staring down at the expanse of pale skin, ethereal and beautiful, more beautiful than any human could ever hope to be. Through 18 years of life and 400 years of death, Jack had never seen anyone even come close to Kent’s appeal, and he suspected that no one ever would.  

“All that matters now is this,” Jack said with an air of finality. He smiled down at Kent and, tentatively, Kent began to smile back. The blood was beginning to dry, clinging to the fine blonde hair on Kent’s chest and arms, and Jack could feel it drying on himself too, beginning to itch.

Kent moved his hands up Jack’s thighs in a slow stroke, fingernails scraping over the dried blood. His smirked seemed more genuine now. “Your room is a mess and _we_ are a mess. Let’s go shower, then we can finish celebrating in my room.”

Jack stood gracefully and Kent followed, pressing himself along the expanse of Jack’s back. Jack was eager to shower and get into Kent’s coffin, but—he was helpless to Kent’s touches. Kent was _everywhere_ —his hands were caressing Jack’s abs and the cut of his hips, his cock was pressed against the back of Jack’s thigh, and Kent’s lips were on Jack’s neck, kissing the blood-stained skin, just a hint of sharp fangs scraping at his skin. Jack shifted his hips, pressing back against Kent, who tightened his hands on Jack’s hips in response.

“Shower?” Jack echoed, and Kent’s responding chuckle was muffled against the skin of his neck.

“In a minute,” Kent murmured. “I can’t bear to move my hands off of you.”

 _We have eternity to do this, there’s no rush_ , Jack considered saying, but he felt it too—the urgency, the need, the desperate desire to be with Kent all the time, to be _touching_ Kent, kissing him, holding him in his arms. He turned in Kent’s embrace effortlessly, wrapping his arms around him, and he stared deep into those green eyes.

Kent angled his face up, asking without words, and Jack was all too happy to oblige him with a kiss.

 

 

On account of Jack having the bigger coffin, he and Kent usually hooked up in his room, but after their shower, they stumbled into Kent’s room, which was mercifully blood free. Jack hadn’t been in Kent’s room for a few years, at the very least, and though he was curious, he hardly paid attention to the paintings and the furniture when Kent’s hands were all over him, shoving Jack’s towel to the ground.

Reluctant to stop kissing, they stumbled clumsily over to Kent’s coffin, bumping into a table and a dresser on their way. Jack pulled away from Kent long enough to glance at the source of a loud thump—an ornate jewelry box had fallen off the table, sending its contents scattering across the floor. Jack went right back to kissing Kent, heavy and intense, and paid the mess no mind. Nothing could distract Jack from Kent now.

When they finally made it to the coffin, running into a lamp on the way over and sending it crashing it to the floor, Kent pushed Jack down onto his back _hard_ , causing yet another loud thump as Jack’s back hit the coffin. It didn’t hurt at all, and he actually laughed and pointed out, “Everyone in this house is listening to us fuck right now.”

Kent laughed too, looking far too smug to be at all embarrassed. He was kneeling between Jack’s legs, and when Kent nudged his knees, Jack spread his legs eagerly, utterly shameless in his desire.

“I don’t fucking care if the whole world is listening,” Kent declared, and a second later, one lube-slick finger was sliding inside Jack with ease. Jack made a soft noise and shifted his hips—it wasn’t _enough_.

“More,” Jack demanded immediately, and though Kent rolled his eyes, he also immediately gave Jack another finger. Jack let out a moan, hips rolling, eager for Kent to fuck him—the blood of at least a dozen humans was flowing through him, filling him with energy and power and _lust_ that a human body could never handle.

Kent started fingering Jack properly, hard and fast, and Jack could barely think straight—his mind was racing, leaving only fragments of thoughts for him to cling to. _Fuck_ being alive; if it had felt anything like this, Jack would have remembered. _This_ feeling, this power and connection between them, the dizzying pleasure of sex, did not feel anywhere near as bleak as life had, but it certainly didn’t feel like death either.

By the point that Jack was getting restless, eager to be fucked and on the verge of begging for it, Kent pulled his fingers out. Kent started to help Jack adjust his hips, but then Jack was moving quickly, flipping them around, so that he was on top of Kent. Beneath him, Kent looked dazed and beautiful and _achingly_ hard. 400 years side-by-side and roughly half of those years of having sex, and Jack had never grown tired of seeing Kent _smile_ like that, with his cheeks rosy from a big meal and his eyes gleaming green.

When Jack _finally_ sank down on Kent’s cock, they both moaned loudly; Kent’s hands flew to Jack’s hips, fingers digging in hard. Jack shifted his hips minutely, adjusting to the feeling of being so _full_ and _good_ and _right_.

“ _Jack_ ,” Kent moaned, and that was enough to spur Jack on. He rode Kent fast and hard, grabbing the sides of the coffin for leverage—the wood cracked under his grip, but Jack hardly noticed. He had the angle just right, Kent hitting his prostate every time Jack moved, and—it wasn’t long before Jack came, untouched, clenching hard around Kent and whiting out for a second with the pleasure of it.

Jack remembered, just in that second of bliss, the first time they’d done this, when they’d both still been human and this had been illegal; Kent had kissed Jack softly and promised not to hurt him and Jack’s hands had been shaking, but they’d been so in _love_ , they were so happy—

When Jack came down from the high, he was slumped against Kent’s chest, blinking dazily.

“You good, Jack?” Kent asked, sounding a little concerned but mostly just cocky, like he always got when he managed to fuck Jack into satisfied incoherence.

Jack made a grumbly sound in agreement and stretched out a little, dislodging Kent’s arms that had been loosely wrapped around him. He was squishing Kent, but it wasn’t like he could hurt him, so Jack didn’t bother moving off of him. Besides, in the tiny coffin, there was really no other option. Kent was still hard, and Jack fully intended to do something about that, only—as he stretched, one arm over the side of the coffin, his fingertips grazed the hardwood floor and felt something odd.

Without really thinking about it, Jack’s fingers closed around the chain of a necklace that must’ve fallen from the jewelry box they knocked over earlier. Out of curiousity, he sat up, still straddling Kent, and lifted the necklace up to inspect it.

It was a familiar locket.

 

 

_“I wish I could stay,” Jack said, gentle and earnest, and Kent nodded, though there were still tears in his eyes. The grief between them was incongruous with the scenic meadow that they sat in, secluded and beautiful in the middle of the forest. The wildflowers bloomed in springtime glory, yet each and every one paled in comparison to Kent._

_Where Jack was going, there would be no flowers and there would be no Kent._

_“Will you come back?” Kent asked quietly._

_Jack held Kent’s hand tight and answered honestly, “I do not know.”_

_They kissed for several long minutes, reluctant to say goodbye. Jack truly did not know if his father would ever permit him to return to this town, to Kent. Jack had a future in the city lined up for him,_ waiting _for him, in which there was no place for what he had with Kent. Jack knew very well that he may never see his love again._

_“If I do not return—” he began as he pulled back, but Kent interrupted._

_“_ Jack _—”_

_“Kenny,” Jack whispered, and there was something in his voice that made Kent stop and listen. “If I do not return, I… I do not want you to forget me.”_

_Jack lifted the locket from around his neck, a precious family heirloom that his grandmother had given him long ago and made him swear to keep safe, and he pressed it into Kent’s hand._

_“Keep this until I come back to you,” Jack beseeched, and Kent nodded once more._

_As Jack watched, Kent promptly put the locket on, tucked it under his shirt to hide it away from the world, and wiped away his tears._

_“I love you,” Kent whispered, voice small and broken, and it felt like goodbye._

 

 

 _It was two years later when Jack returned, but he was not the same carefree boy that he’d been when he left. He wrote a letter to Kent, apologizing for everything, for failing Kent and failing his father, a drawn-out_ I’m sorry and I love you _that spanned three pages of expensive ink, smeared by falling tears and nervous hands. It was hardly legible anymore._

_Jack laid down in that meadow, stared up at the stars above that used to seem so much brighter, drank the poison that he’d been planning to down for months, and waited to die. Unbeknownst to Jack for a long, long time, in that very same moment, Kent had been across town, being accosted in a dark alley by a stranger that bit into his neck and condemned him to be a monster._

_In the haze of poison, Jack had not been able to register the rest of the events of that night except for the pain. All he remembered of the gruesome, agonizing change into a vampire was looking up, but instead of seeing the dark expanse of the night sky, he saw the specter of Kent above him—his face pale and drawn, blood dripping from his mouth, and a locket swinging from his neck._

 

 

“You kept it all these years,” Jack whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the ancient piece of jewelry. Kent must have cared for it, for it still shone, the silver as bright as the day Jack’s grandmother had given it to him. 400 years, Kent had kept this safe, and… Jack did not know how to feel about that.

He looked down at Kent, but Kent was looking away, every line of his body tense.

“You gave it to me,” Kent replied, quiet as a sigh. “It—it was a reminder of the time you once loved me.”

Perhaps Jack should have figured it out long ago, but holding that locket in his hand and seeing the pain on Kent’s face, it was suddenly so clear. It all made sense—why the anniversary of their death felt like a date, why Kent still kissed Jack after everything they put each other through, why Kent stayed with him all these years, even when Jack hadn’t been speaking to him, even when they fought _constantly_. He loved Jack.

It occurred to Jack that maybe Kent had never _stopped_ loving him.

Fuck.

“Forget the locket,” Kent said, _pleading_ , an edge of desperation in his voice as he reached out to cup Jack’s hand, closing Jack’s fingers around the locket and hiding it from sight. He drew his hand back immediately, but Jack kept clutching at the old medal, grounding himself in the way the edges dug into his skin. “It doesn’t matter, Jack, nothing matters except _this_ , isn’t that what you said?”

Dumbfounded, incapable of thinking of anything else to say, Jack’s eyes met Kent’s and he asked, “Are you still in love with me?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that.” Kent was closed off suddenly, a defensive edge to his voice.

“Kenny,” Jack said softly, trying to comfort Kent, trying to show him that he cared and they could talk about this—but Kent practically flinched, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

“You can’t do that,” Kent whispered, carefully controlled, and Jack knew him, he knew that meant Kent was trying to keep tears back. “You can’t just call me _Kenny_ like we’re still children, like you still—”

Kent cut himself off, frustration coloring his features.

“Like I still love you?” Jack finished, voice hushed. Kent was refusing to look at him again, and it felt oddly unbalanced to be staring down at him, so Jack laid down once more, half on top of Kent, with his head resting on Kent’s shoulder.

After one long, tense moment, Kent’s arms encircled Jack again.

“You don’t love me,” Kent whispered, even while his hands clung to Jack, clutching at his back, as if terrified that Jack was going to pull away—as if Jack could _possibly_ leave _now_ , despite everything he’d stayed through. “I know you don’t.”

Jack was careful to collect his thoughts before speaking, anxious to say the wrong thing and upset Kent further. He didn’t know what it was, this _feeling_ between them, but he knew enough. He knew that he didn’t want to lose it, and he did not intend to. In life, Jack had denied himself so _much_ , all for nothing—a miserable life with a disappointing end—what was the point of denying himself what he wanted now? All he wanted was _Kent._

Jack thought, fleetingly, of earlier in the day, when he and Kent had kissed passionately and murdered a theater full of innocent people together. Dinner and a movie—it really _was_ a good date.

“I don’t breathe,” Jack finally said. “We’re dead—we don’t breathe and we don’t love.”

Kent’s quiet laugh surprised Jack, though he was relieved to hear it.

“You don’t breathe, but you _can_ ,” Kent pointed out, and he heaved a heavy sigh just to prove it. The exhaled air ruffled Jack’s hair, and he couldn’t help but smile; on a whim, he pressed a kiss to Kent’s collarbone. Kent stroked his hand down Jack’s back and continued, “You don’t love, but you _can_ , Jack.”

“I don’t even remember how it feels,” Jack admitted, quiet, thoughts racing again, because—fuck, could it really be as easy as breathing? For the first time in 400 years, Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Kent kissed the top of Jack’s head, and they were both soundless as they thought. Jack knew that, if he focused, he could find out what everyone else in the house was doing, but—he focused solely on Kent now. Their bodies fit well together, they always had, since the days that they’d laid in meadows instead of coffins. But Jack felt at _home_ here, in Kent’s coffin, in Kent’s arms, enveloped in Kent’s affections. He took another breath, just as easy as the last one.

“Jack…” Kent’s voice was soft, and as he spoke again, it was the sound of a new beginning. “It feels like this.”

**Author's Note:**

> TW: suicide, blood play, some period-typical homophobia
> 
> I was all set to work on the GOT AU when I got this idea on a whim, and... it spiraled into 6k somehow! As always, let me know what you all think!


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